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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256959">The Three Acts of a Wizard</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug'>Caitybug</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>An Apology, Angst, Baz pov, But also, Cute, HMC AU, M/M, Pining, Remix, Scones, a reprieve, and a wizard, bc... yeah, birthday gift for Nena &lt;3, for both a dragon, graphic depictions of things occurring in threes, long winded thoughts about a dragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:14:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,439</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Today, Baz is giving Simon a reprieve (or, that's what he is telling Simon.)</p><p>Cue a removal of cursed body parts, a grumpy fireplace who *knows* what is happening, and a shrill frizzy-haired friend threatening to poison some scones. </p><p>(this is a remix fic, original story linked in the A/N)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Three Acts of a Wizard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/gifts">NineMagicks</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668601">You Who Swallowed a Falling Star</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks">NineMagicks</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks so much for clicking!! This fic is for <a href="http://tumblr.com/blog/ninemagicks">Nena</a> since it is her birthday! </p><p>I've loved her HMC fic so much, and I thought what better way to celebrate her than to see what lies on the other (much more ornate, messy, and dramatic) side of part of her story. </p><p>Specifically, this is a remix of chapter 5 in that fic, <em>A Dragon's Reprieve</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Special shoutouts to <a href="http://tumblr.com/blog/adamarks">Jay</a> and <a href="http://tumblr.com/blog/carryonsimoncarryonbaz">CSCB</a> for looking over this fic! </em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Also, please do make sure and read her fic <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668601/chapters/54180985">You Who Swallowed A Falling Star</a> </em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Anyway, I shall stop rambling. I hope you all enjoy! (Especially you, Nena. Happy birthday!)</em></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Act 1: Dim the lights, Open the Curtains, The Show Begins</b>
</p><p>
  <span>I wake up, the room dark. Some light shines in from below the curtain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow spent time in my room last night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw, well, he saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baz,  your room’s a tip. Sort it out,” he said. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not all that needs to be sorted. Not the least of it. But you saw it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You saw </span>
  </em>
  <span>me</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>My mind, strewn across the floor for all to see. It has all the places I’ve been (run). All my attempts to avoid, escape, hide. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You can see it all here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All the wrongs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I swallowed a star.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All the rights.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(You. I found you.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sigh and sit up, pulling the covers aside. If I’m to wallow in self-pity this morning, I may as well get out of bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I open the curtains. All it does is illuminate what is around me (everything) and make me stare myself in the face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, I guess that’s what I’ve decided. To look it (me) in the eye and face it. Last night when Snow was in my room (my head) and he talked, I decided running wasn’t for me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I asked him to talk, to tell me everything. Simon Snow gave me a glimpse into him and his life. He talked about goats, Ebb, Penny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a mother, or at least as good as one. He lost her too, just like I did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I move to put on clothes. Today is important. I need to commemorate it with a proper look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I see my pink hair in a small mirror as a reminder.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remember apologizing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I made a promise.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I always stick with my promises. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I put on a shirt, one covered in stars. Bit ironic, but lovely nonetheless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today begins my reprieve (Snow’s reprieve, he believes.) I can’t tell if I’m being selfish or not, using this as a day to breathe before I accept what comes next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve got it planned out, in my mind at least. Three parts, three acts, a whole damn metaphor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(If I’m going to do this, there’s going to be a metaphor. There always will be.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Act 1 begins before he even wakes up. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>I grab a blue coat, an ornate dragon resting on the back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(One must always be accompanied by a dragon, you see. Who knows what in the world could be out there? Perhaps someone will need to be tripped by a tail, growled at when they ask a question, or even lectured on the importance of butter-to-pastry ratios.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I get down to the living area, I see Simon curled next to Calcifer. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon</span>
  </em>
  <span>, fast asleep, tail wrapped around his leg, wings laid across himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still a mess, even when sleeping. His curls are tangled in knots (which I’m sure he won’t brush); a bit of drool is hanging off the side of his mouth, and his shirt is lifted up just a bit so you can see his lower stomach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kid got down here late.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I jump. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t have any scale rashes, do you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shove it you paltry pyre.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I step closer, pushing a curl gently from his forehead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re lucky he hasn’t blown you out,” I whisper. He’s breathing through his mouth. “Would serve you right.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He keeps me warm. Thank god he does, since there are entitled enchanters walking around demanding hours worth of baths. How dirty do you get?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I scoff, walking away from them both, my boots making soft noises on the wood. He doesn’t need to wake up yet, to see what I’ve got planned. I’ve got the reputation of a hearteater to protect, after all. Though I hope he knows I wouldn’t…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’d never.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Do you see past that facade? Do you see the Wizard beneath, the boy who once stood in a lake, scared, and sad, and done with the world?)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes I think he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows more than he lets on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Than he realizes.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Make sure he doesn’t wake up.” I button my coat and walk to the door. “Not until Shepard and Summer do. I don’t need him getting into my potions again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah yes, I would hate for another bathtime meltdown</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I roll my eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bring me back some oak, while you’re out,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Calcifer says as I walk through the door, heading to the Valley. I give him a wave of acknowledgment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Greedy fireplace.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stand up straight and with purpose. I am Haz Jenkins here, to the people in the Valley. I’ve even given my hair a blue tinge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Better than the pink.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I walk down the road, retracing my steps from the first time I met Snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, well, the first time </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> met </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look up to the sky, an orange and yellow hue mixing with blue, clouds rolling through the sky peacefully. The sun peeks out across the horizon, slowly waking up with the rest of the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s much too early to be out of bed, in my opinion. I’d rather be awake when the sun is completely in the sky, round and full. This half-sun nonsense is despicable. If the sun isn’t going to wake up completely, then why should I?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder if he’s already awake?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How long before he realizes I’m gone? Would he even? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stop along the path, finding what I was looking for.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looking up I see the roof where I dropped Simon off that first time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yeah. You're a hazard. Can't see how you get anything done, dressing like a doily of the night and loitering in alleyways." </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look down at what I’m wearing. A lacy shirt covered in stars, the blue coat with jewels shaping a dragon on my back, knee-high boots, and blue hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems I’ve not stopped looking like a “</span>
  <em>
    <span>doily of the night</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An attractive, fashionable doily of the night, at least</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon Snow, however, is five shades of beige and food stains. The dragon bits and scales add some colors, at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though he’s also golden. And blue (his eyes are). A tinge of pink when someone says something that makes him nervous. (It’s cute, I think.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I realize I’ve been standing here, staring for far too long, so I step inside the bakery in order to keep Snow’s loitering comment out of my head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop loitering and get inside, there are pastries on the line</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he’d say. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘Lo there, welcome,” someone says from behind a counter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a proper brouhaha inside, people shopping for jams, pointing at bread like it’s the enemy (although they seem to want it, I think), looking at me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I guess I’m not blending in very well</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stand up straight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Wizard Haz Jenkins. When I’m in Snow’s residency I’ll be myself, the Wizard Pitch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Haz Jenkins is confident and suave (how could you not with a name like that?) Even if I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> the part (which I am, I know that much about myself), I’ve learned that no one will question you if you act like you know what you’re doing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which, I do, for the record. (Know what I’m doing.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make it to the counter after a lady who is frantically purchasing enough bread to feed what I would assume is a traveling circus (do they have those in the Valley? In the country? I’m sure Snow would know. I’m sure he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the circus. Imagine it-- “Dragon Boy Extraordinaire. Come One Come All to the magical display of Simon the Magic Dragon. Ride on his back for two pence. Get stabbed in the eye by the tail for a pound. Listen to him gripe about the crimes against cake and pastries for a tenner.” Nightmare. Thank god he’s at the castle instead.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How can I help you?” The person behind the counter asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no indication of a name, but they don’t seem </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleased</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, your scones please,” I reply hastily. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A child behind me whispers to his mother about the dragon on my coat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Which ones? Cinnamon? Apple? Plain? Raisin? Chocolate chip-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sour cherry,” I interrupt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I do not want to hear what else these people may put into a scone. Chocolate chips? I imagine they make a fairy dust flavor as well. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How many?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look at the case and try to think about the number.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How many would a bottomless hole want? Add a couple more for Shepard, another for the fireplace…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The lot, if you could,” I reply. Better than trying to figure out the math.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hear a shout from the back to a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kipling </span>
  </em>
  <span>about leaving at least one behind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s not going to be coming today, just let the man buy them,” he shouts back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kipling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that must be his name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You never know! And if he does, I want to be able to hand him a poisoned scone for all the trouble he’s caused me,” the shrill voice from the back shouts again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I furrow my brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who is she trying to poison?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are the scones pre-poisoned? Or was she planning to poison them on sight?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever,” he mutters. He grabs all the scones and places them inside a brown paper bag. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> be poisoned, right?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “She’ll never know, and I know Simon isn’t coming back today. If he does, then maybe I’ll be saving his life by not keeping a scone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I freeze for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That must be Penny in the back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She’s been waiting for him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pay for the scones and walk out of the shop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon Snow, there are people who miss you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Does he miss them too? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would he rather be here, eating scones at his leisure and listening to the quips of his friend in the bakery?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a bit funny, really, if I think too much about it (and I do. Think too much, that is.) She doesn’t want some mysterious bloke in a blue coat to purchase all of Simon’s favorite scones, just in case he comes back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lo and behold, however, I am actually bringing them all to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poor Kipling too, as what will happen to him when Simon </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> come back later? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn around for one final glance at the roof. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s my boy,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” I said before leaving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then I let him go. After looking for so long, I walked away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I found him that day in an alley. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I saved him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(But, did I? Or did I curse him instead?)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cast magic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(So did he.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without ever knowing, he cast magic upon me. He has ever since. Who knows what sonnet (limerick? Haiku? An entire Shakespeare play?) he cast in my room last night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things will never be the same. I can’t go back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not running. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not after today. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I close my eyes and cast, letting the door form in front of me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I walk back through I smell pancakes. There is clatter from the kitchen, and voices. Shepard is cooking. I hear Summer bark once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shepard, please don't make any pancakes for Snow,” I say, moving to sit next to him. I spread my legs out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Immediately Simon starts to sputter (I wonder if he’s always like this, or if it happens to just be a side effect of being a Dragon. Will the sputtering evolve into fire breathing? Is that how it works?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look at the floor and around us for a brief moment while Snow starts to beg Shepard for pancakes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah yes, too much wood around here for a Dragon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll need to look up fire repellent spells.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>We didn’t start the fire</b>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, that would just pass the blame to someone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe I could use something with the word extinguish… but that would just mean the fire would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>put out</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>prevented</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I put Snow out of his misery and place the bag between us. He immediately stops and stares at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watch as his thoughts play clearly across his face. (They always do. What a terrible actor; thank god I’m the one creating this play.) He scrutinizes the bag, but then it dawns on him, what they must be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon he is grabbing the package and looking at its contents, deciding they are safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I choose not to mention how his friend threatened to poison them should he arrive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take away my Jenkins disguise, allowing the pink locks of hair to shine through. (I wonder how long this will last. Snow doesn’t seem to mind. Even said it looks “</span>
  <em>
    <span>bloody good”</span>
  </em>
  <span> on me.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I grab cutlery and a salacious amount of butter for Snow. But when I take a seat, grabbing one of the god-like pastries (Snow’s words, not mine), he snatches it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think, for a moment, that he has decided they are all for him, (Maybe his dragon parts are taking over. Now he’s starting to hoard his treasures. Suddenly the fire prevention spell seems more prudent.) but then he uses one of his claws to apply an amount of butter that could only mean he wishes my immediate demise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but stare. It’s a trainwreck, like Shepard tripping over Summer when she gets excited. I can’t help but watch the mess happen before my eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where has your claw been, Simon Snow?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> does he use that thing for?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I cannot put that in my mouth, Snow,” I tell him, repulsed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no way. Does he really eat like this? Do we need to take him to a physician?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What spell could prevent butter related tragedies?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There must be a cream-based pun or turn of phrase I could use. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Snow insists and pushes the plate back over, waiting patiently for me to shove it in my mouth. (I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> shove it in my mouth. That’s his job. Not all of us are scaly stout salamanders like him.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few insults, a sexual implication over where his claw may have been, and a short argument with the fireplace, I take a bite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then another.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t say so. I let the silence answer Simon’s burning question for me. I’ve never been one to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>come out with it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Things can be left to interpretation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calcifer makes a comment, and I choke on some crumbs, making everyone around me laugh hysterically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a moment and a finished scone later, before I hand Snow another one, making him smile bright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It burns, almost, but also it’s as if I can feel my heart beat in my chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There you are. I thought you were gone, buried inside a mordacious fire demon</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon butters it again and passes it over, and I decide that if I am to die, then this is how it shall be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a buttered scone, a content dragon, and a fireplace bickering about its need for breakfast foods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>_____________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A burning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is what I need for today. It’s both properly symbolic and cleansing of my soul. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodbye Haz Jenkins</span>
  </em>
  <span>, blue-haired wizard with a knack for potions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I say goodbye to each of my personas. Snow watches in awe as it happens. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not running anymore, Simon. I can’t. You’ve shown me it’s impossible to run any longer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I say goodbye to Jardin Lavande, Daryl Pendragon, Charles Watford, the aliases I’ve hidden behind for so long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dying of boredom, chronically unimpressed, elusive and reclusive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s me, despite how I pretend otherwise. There’re little pieces of myself I couldn’t hide in each of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dying of boredom</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Fleeing every time things get too intense, too emotional.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Chronically unimpressed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Act bored and cool when faced with a situation. People will assume you’re important. That you don’t have a room filled with trinkets, many of which are buried so deep within even </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> aren’t sure what’s there.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Elusive and reclusive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Being harder to grasp than smoke. If no one can catch you, find you, then you’re safe. You’re safe from harm’s way. From the pain of being known or seen.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not anymore, however.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look back at Snow as I finish throwing in the letters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not running anymore</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I tell Calcifer we are leaving, make sure Shepard knows to deal with anyone who comes to the door, and try to get Simon to stand still. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A dragon’s reprieve</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I promised him a proper apology, one that would make up for my hysterics, for losing control.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I’ve been losing control for a while. Did I ever properly have it? I’m unsure.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath and spell his wings away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodbye dear dragon</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I watch him transform (both literally and figuratively). The relief on his face is instantaneous, even after just one spell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s becoming the man he was before he ever had the poor Wizard Pitch, eater of hearts and mover of castles, invade his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cast a spell for his claws, and he reaches up to touch his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How would your fingers feel in my hair, on my cheeks, in my hand?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m focused, present. I need to see the transformation, watch as Simon shows me who he is without the dragon parts— who he is at his barest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what today is, isn’t it? Me invading his life even further. Seeing his home, watching his life unfold before me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lean closer, pressing my wand to his cheek, spelling the scales away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon Snow, who are you if not a dragon?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who are you without the scales and the claws? Without the tail that pokes and demands attention?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who were you before me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where are the messy parts in your head?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wonder, briefly, if he has trinkets and stories hidden in his room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is important that I find out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thanks me at least a dozen times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t realize that it should be me thanking him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready for the second act?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I threatened to surprise you, Snow, and I always deliver on my threats. This morning has been but the opening scene. The symphony swells when we step outside.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m mixing my metaphors, but I doubt Snow will notice. The symphony will be but the soundtrack to our play today. I can hear the concerto right now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The symphony...? Hang on, you're mixing your metaphors. Theatrical or orchestral—pick one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I blink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon Snow, how do you always manage to surprise me</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I suppose theatrical will do,” I grumble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wizards aren’t supposed to grumble, Snow. Did you know that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Stick to theatre metaphors only, then. No need to get the violins involved.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I start to lead him to the door when I realize </span>
  <em>
    <span>(How could I have forgotten?)</span>
  </em>
  <span> that there is a spear-shaped object still attached to his rear end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives me a look, but then when I cast my spell he realizes what I had missed. What I hadn’t expected, however, was the fall into my arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I catch him, of course.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I always will.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We settle and face the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The moon door</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s through the moon door?” Simon asks me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything I like. Anywhere I’d rather be,” I respond, looking at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anything I like.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Golden curls. Soft smile. Messy eater.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anywhere I’d rather be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Wherever you are.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>_____________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Act 2: See into your home, your mind, and the truth</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We step through the door, onto a road next to the farm, the cheese shop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His farm</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His cheese shop</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon, ever the spectacle, is spinning, looking around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon Snow, you’re so bright.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(How did you survive so much?)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re so alive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(You’ve had so much pain. Your mother, your parents, and now losing yourself.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your heart is so big, I can practically see it beating through your chest.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Would you have eaten a star? Would you have wanted to end the pain so badly that you caught one and made it a promise?)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I see the way the light hits his curls, the freckles on his cheeks bright as he smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I catch myself smiling so I look away. It’s too much.  The hills nearby, where the sky meets the earth. The picture of Simon Snow starts to unfold before me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hear sheep bleating nearby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He woke up to this view every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lead him along, assuming he will follow me, but when I turn around I see him staring where the door stood before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will you come back with me, Simon?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I school my emotions and go with what I know best. Snark and sarcasm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well? Am I going to sample this famous cheese of which you mumbled—poetically, and at great length, I might add? I'd be frightfully disappointed to have gone to such effort and not come away with an unwieldy wheel of Camembert,” I say, trying to encourage him to continue along.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Light and airy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He needs his reprieve today.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(As do I.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grumbles something about goat cheese and pushes past me to open the shop door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I walk in after him and the world starts to make sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s warm, both in temperature and aesthetic. There are different cheeses littered about. Dust motes are seen where the sun shines; it’s quiet. It’s the definition of a lazy Sunday. (Are all days Sundays when you live in the countryside? Has Simon Snow never known the brutal tragedy of waking up on a Monday?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I move to inspect some cheeses on the shelf, let Snow figure out the next move of the play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s time for me to study, to watch the story of him unravel in front of me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The labels are all handwritten and priced by the pound.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tesyn, Pantysgawn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and Gevrik.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There are different regions that have inspired the cheeses they make: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feta (Greece), Formaggio di capra di Lagundo (Italy), and Castelo Blanco (Portugal). </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The smell here...” I mutter to myself, wrinkling my nose. Who knew goat’s cheese could be so smelly?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It's hardly going to smell like roses, is it? Or like whatever kind of exotic songbird you murdered to make that cologne.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, he heard that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I frown, trying to think of a way to recover. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You've been spending far too much time with my fireplace. The mouth on you is astonishing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I touch a shelf, running my finger along it. It’s warped with age, but the wood is still solid. It’s strong. Even the wood in the store resembles Simon and his characteristics. “This shop…it smells like you.” I say it quietly. He could have not heard it for all I know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It smells like goat’s cheese, yes, but also like the faint smell of wood, of comfort and spices.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Honey, I smell honey too somewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that why you smell sweet?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Snow doesn’t respond to my comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leads me to another room and looks up a set of stairs. The floor creaks softly as we walk. It feels like we’re sneaking around, invaders in Simon’s home. I worry that one bang around could alert something to our arrival. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I turn to see Simon again, he is looking up at the steps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are obvious markings on the wall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dragon markings.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can only imagine what kind of trouble he was when he mysteriously sprouted extra appendages. A right fright, I would assume. I’m sure there was sputtering (always is), maybe some growls, perhaps a sharp exhale in frustration. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let him know that there is more to do than just see his friend. I’d buy him clothes, but I think he’d probably accuse me of turning him into some kind of flightless bird (a peacock or a penguin? Maybe a rooster.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Get clothes and come back</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, I get an idea and step past him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s only fair, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take the steps two at a time, forgetting the cautiousness we were living in before. Snow is shorter than me (by three inches at least), and I’ve got the leg advantage. He tries his best to catch up to me, but I can’t help but smile as I go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This isn’t running.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Not like before.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is learning</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I get to the top and see a few different doors. He’s huffing and puffing behind me, catching up, but then I see a door with claw marks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like breadcrumbs, really. Just instead of it being food, it’s destruction to a home. (I’m sure if I looked close enough there would be a trail of food somewhere. Perhaps old scone crumbs, some biscuits, spilt tea.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I duck under the doorway (is everyone in the country short?) and into his room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s soft, homey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Simon Snow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gathers his clothes and I look around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It smells like him, looks like him, it’s a bit less messy than my room (not completely neat, but also not a complete travesty).</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's comfortable," I say, trying to put him at ease. It is, of course. Simon Snow is like a warm fire (one that doesn’t snap back at you when you ask it to warm your bath, that is) or a lazy day with the windows open and the sun shining into your home. I purse my lips in thought. I don’t want him to get crazy ideas that this place is </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span> by any means. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm afraid you are lacking a sarcastic fireplace, though, and so my castle remains superior."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s true. But also, it means more than what I’m letting on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t stay here, Simon. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where would we be without our favorite dragon? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where would </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> be?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has books on the shelves. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Interesting</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There are no dragons here, either,” I say, quietly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve wormed your way into my life, Simon Snow. You’ve entered into my castle, my bedroom, my</span>
  </em>
  <span> bath</span>
  <em>
    <span> even. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I give in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I give up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I surrender myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To you, to the butter claw, to the invasions in my life. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look back at the books. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would he want these on the shelves in the castle? Should I take them? I’m sure I could take them when he’s not looking, in case he ever wanted to read them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(They’re all about goats and goat cheese, however. I’m sure I could give him something more entertaining. Maybe turn him on to the magical world of cows. Wonder if he’d find the change in animals appealing? I can only imagine his reaction to making dairy products from nuts too.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is one that seems to be about knights.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sure I’ve got some books about knights somewhere in the castle</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look over at Simon, putting more clothes into his bag. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve no heart.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that okay?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think, however, that might not entirely be true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What organ do I need to blame this on? Should I go swallow a cloud to remove my spleen? A gust of wind to remove my stomach? Maybe the whole moon to get rid of my kidneys.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I could do all of that, and you’d still invade my life. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I’m surrendering, giving up. I’m not running from vampires or wars or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We walk back down and I continue my study. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He talks to a goat (of course he does). Somehow the bleating is just as charming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(I’m disgusting, truly. For a heartless wizard, how have I been entranced by a bleating, bumbling, blundering dragon?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We go outside and immediately get accosted by a woman with frizzy hair and a shrill voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I find out it’s Penny, the woman Simon talked about, I’m taken aback. He described her as </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His </span>
  <em>
    <span>best friend</span>
  </em>
  <span> even. She’s fierce, that is for sure. But then I begin to connect the dots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> be the type to threaten to kill Simon for leaving with only a letter. There’s an undercurrent, however. She cares. He left her, and she was hurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d be hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look at him as he tries to figure out ways to calm her down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How did you get through situations like this before, Snow?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So I try to diffuse the situation the best way I know how. This day is separated into three acts, so I may as well play the part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Haz Jenkins, fashion icon (Could anyone deny it looking at me?) here to save all dragons, goatherds, and cheese sellers alike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What I don’t expect, however, is when she dismisses me so she can talk to Simon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I give him a look, but leave as I’m told. I know better than to mess with cranky, worried, possibly murderous friends.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take my exit on stage left and take a deep sigh as I see them enter the shop.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>I thought I had it all planned out, but even the best-laid plans need improvisation. What did I think was going to happen? That I’d be invited in? Have biscuits and tea and listen to stories of Simon b.b.c. (before the butter claw)?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon is home. He’s loved and cared for, as best as you can be in a cheese shop. There is someone with him who will yell at him for leaving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon Snow, will you leave me when this is over?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I reach into my shirt, where two necklaces lie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For the third act</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One for me, the other for you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A teapot, just like my mothers. I was planning to cast the spell in front of Simon. But maybe it’s best I don’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some things are best left poetically unsaid, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I move into an alley and pull out my wand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Hear me loud and clear</b>
</p><p>
  <b>See me home</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Follow your heart to me</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, even if we are separate, even if he chooses to come back to a life of goat cheese and country life, Simon can find me. He can call to me and I’ll come. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ll always come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I slip the necklace into my pocket and wait for the final act to begin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Act 3: Close the curtains, Turn on the Lights, It’s Time to go Home</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just in time for the final act, as I see the sun start to move down to the horizon, Simon steps out of the shop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m behind him in an instant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I always am, for him.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>I’ll cast you a castle in the sky</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We move to the top of the bakery, looking out at the sunset. It’s becoming pink and red.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think of my hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon’s scales.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Together, now, we make the sky.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We talk. He tells me about biscuits and tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look over and I see his transformation before me. His tail is already making itself known (I wonder sometimes if I have to fight it for his attention), but his wings are coming back too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The way the light shines through them, leaving a bit of red in their wake, adding what I assume is a reddish hue to my skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tells me this day and the reprieve was heartfelt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You know nothing of being heartfelt, Simon Snow</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I reach into my pocket and pull out the necklace. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The final act. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only thing a heartless wizard such as myself could give him. It’s a piece of my magic. Of my heart. (Whatever there may be of it, I’m not sure. I’m still debating on the magical abilities of the lungs. Maybe the esophagus would be a better one to look into?)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I need help, you’ll hear me?” Simon asks after a bit. After some laughter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll hear you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll find you,” I tell him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon Snow, I looked for you for years. If I could find you in the alley on your way to a bakery, with only a fading memory in my head, I could find you anywhere. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We watch the sunset for a while. I let myself enjoy it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I open the door to go back to the castle, enjoying the last few moments of this day. The warmth, the comfort, a sea of gold and red softly blurring into each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something wonderful about knowing I can stand still for a moment. Let everyone else run by me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look at Snow and notice something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s in your pocket, Snow?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinks and reaches in, obviously having forgotten whatever it was he had put there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The paper is crumpled up into a ball, something he didn’t want seen. I grab it and flatten it out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simon Snow of [nondescript goat farm 001] on the hill, by order of the Mage and his most splendid kingdom, will report to the barracks in East Witherford on Tuesday-next…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel myself steel up, the relaxation of the moment previous leaving me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One hand of mine rests in his hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull it away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This won’t do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He can’t.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I won’t allow it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Mage wants all the Wizards to report (he has my name down at least 4 times), imagine what he would do with a…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look over at Simon out of the corner of my eye, wings spread out behind his back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’d kill you, use you. He’d hurt you without a second glance.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t let him do that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not like I can actually sign up,” Simon snorts, trying to lighten the mood. (He always is. Unless he’s hungry. Then he’ll spar with the fireplace.) “Look at me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look up from the page to fully look at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am looking at you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t you understand?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m always looking at you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I crumble the paper and light it on fire.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Seems my post isn’t the only one being burned today.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps the whole business should be lit up. Down with all Postal Services. Use birds or tin cans to communicate instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The only thing his words are worth is fire and smoke,” I say. I think for a moment about my mother.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, not now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I give my brain a mental shake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I apologise, Snow, if I gave the wrong impression about the reprieve.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I told you it was for you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” He asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's a furrow between his brows forming. In another world I’d make sure that never happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t have to worry; I’ll protect you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I led you to believe it was meant for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s meant for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I lied, one last time. I’m sorry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You what?” Simon’s frown deepens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Calcifer crackles behind him. I wonder if he knows what I’m about to do. (The menace always seems to.) One of the drawbacks of protecting my heart. He can always see what I’m about to do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hope he understands, that he forgives me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Calcifer? Simon? Myself?)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A reprieve is a delay to a punishment, is it not? A suspension, to which there must come an end.” I sigh, thinking of what is ahead. There is something beyond I need to fight, I need to control. “The punishment is not yours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes it is,” he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He always argues</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “The dragon stuff is my punishment. My </span>
  <b>cheese-</b>
  <span>fuck it all to hell.” He takes a deep breath. “You gave me a day, Baz. A day to be me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I gave a day for me to see you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For you to see me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t you see?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The punishment is mine, and I take it now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I need to fix it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I step close to him. I can feel his breath on my chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes a step back towards the door, I see his feet touch the stone of the castle floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His bag and clothes tumble out, a sea of grey on grey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He asks me what punishment I’m talking about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a hand and pulls me close. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to stay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He touches my face, his claw on my cheek. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d never hurt me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I know that.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I would never hurt him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(But I am, I know it.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I would never be able to run from him. We match. Him with his scales, me without a heart. A grumpy dragon and a heartless Wizard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Our foreheads touch and for a moment I feel…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I feel.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve avoided it for so long. I’ve run for years and years. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Snow,” I say</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pitch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Simon,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I hear from behind him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baz?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He seems hopeful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No, it’s me-- Calcifer.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> <span>I try not to roll my eyes.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, you luminous lowlife.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Calcifer sees, he knows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s my heart after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Though I’m beginning to wonder… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To suspect.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Snow,” I whisper. I know he’s not going to like it. He’s a dragon, all fire and anger. He won’t like what I’m about to say. “This doorway isn’t for me. Not tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You get to go home, Simon Snow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s another place that needs me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He begs and he pleads for me to stay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re well again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But not enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get some rest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll rest later.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a moment when he slips and I think he might have been about to…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I must be wrong. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” I say, closing myself off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve gone so long running from my feelings, my thoughts, my worries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m good at closing them off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not right now, however. But to you, I can hide them from you, for you, to save you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll return.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I always will.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I just found you. I’ve cracked the code, learned who you are. You’ve shown me your heart, more than you realize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I push my wand against him and in his ear, I say “</span>
  <b>Home sweet home</b>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tumbles backward, the tail reaching for me, trying to get me to stay with them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wonder if he realizes… if Simon </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Home sweet home.</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wouldn’t have fallen back if he hadn’t called my castle home, if he didn’t want to be here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>With me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Be with me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have to,” I say. “I wasn't there last night. Things will be bad. Things will be wrong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I see Shepard beside him, pulling Simon up. Calcifer is sparking hot from the fireplace (he knows). Summer is barking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I close the door, succumbing to the darkness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart, it hurts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(What there is of it.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hear the teapot steam, it’s hot against my chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A silent apology. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hope for understanding. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not running.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I promise.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m going to fix this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(For you, for us.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just be patient. It’s been so long since I’ve had a heart. I can’t stand for it to break again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let the curtain close behind me as I take a step into the dark. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The play is done.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reality begins. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed seeing Baz's head (it's a bit messy, needs tidying, I know.) </p><p>Check me out on <a href="http://tumblr.com/blog/caitybuglove23">Tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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